


Come To My Own Hearthstone

by mcmanatea



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Timeline, Ered Luin, Frodo-centric POV, M/M, bittersweet with a happy ending, but not canon deaths, mention of off-sceen major character death, old husbands in love, secret marriage (though not a secret for long)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 00:50:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13135692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcmanatea/pseuds/mcmanatea
Summary: Frodo had long dreamed of sharing an adventure with his Uncle Bilbo. This Yule he would get his wish, though perhaps not in the way he had expected.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KneelingToLoki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KneelingToLoki/gifts).



Frodo sighed as he regarded the clothing strewn across his bedroom. The chair from his small writing desk had almost completely disappeared beneath a mountain of fabric, and the bed was rapidly following suit. 

He had outgrown all but a handful of shirts, and only three pairs of trousers now fell to a respectable length below his knees. His many relations would make much better use of the hand-me-downs than he, especially since a great number of articles were so gently used they could be considered new. In the four years he had lived in Bag End, Frodo had never gone more than three months without something unexpected appearing in his closet...usually several somethings at once. Bilbo himself had an entire _room_ dedicated to fine clothing, and was put out that Frodo did not share his enthusiasm, no matter how many silk waistcoats he was presented with. 

Nevertheless, the annual clearing out of his perfectly average-sized closet was a necessity; his last growth spurt had pushed him above three-foot-two. If previous years were anything to go by, an order had been placed with Bilbo’s tailor for speedy replacements already. 

It was not the prospect of giving away his old clothing that had Frodo feeling morose. He was, in fact, rather pleased to gift them to his less-well-off relatives. It was the knowledge that this tradition always preceded him spending the entire Yule season in Buckland, while Bilbo disappeared to parts unknown.

For nine years after the death of his parents, Frodo had rattled around Brandy Hall, never feeling quite settled in that maze of a smial, constantly tripping over toys, knick-knacks, and endless Brandybuck cousins. Though he was never treated unkindly, it was quite a lot for a boy of twelve to be the only child of loving parents one day, and orphaned the next. While he was never made to feel unwelcome, many nights were still spent smothering angry tears into his pillow.

The Bilbo of Frodo’s youth had been a distant, somewhat eccentric cousin who travelled too often and missed far too many parties to ever be considered proper. But while the grown-ups whispered over their teacups about his queer habits, every faunt knew who to go to for a sweet, a magic trick, or a story that could be retold in hushed whispers after the candles had been blown out for bedtime.

Even though they seemed too fantastical to be true, it was those tales Frodo clung to when the smothering discomfort of his new life made him feel like he was going to burst out of his skin. His older cousin’s pinches became the branches of trees in a dark forest, snagging his curls and clothes in their gnarled grips; the oppressive warmth of a summer day spent indoors watching baby Merry while the other children played was the pulsating heat of dragon-warmed gold in a distant mountain.

Each time Bilbo’s wanderings brought him East of Hobbiton, it was Frodo who greeted him most happily; it was Frodo pleading for just one more story after all the younger children had grown bored and left; it was Frodo who walked with Bilbo to the very edge of the Old Forest, seeing his relation off with sad, pleading eyes. And every time he visited, it seemed Bilbo started thinking of new tales to tell, new reasons to stay for another night, and eventually, a new reluctance to travel great distances before returning home.

The day Frodo was told he was going to live at Bag End with his favorite relative was the best of his life thus far. It had taken time for both of them to adjust, and the reality of their cohabitation did not always match up with Frodo’s imagination: Bilbo’s moods were mercurial, his temper short, and his experience with younger hobbits limited. Nevertheless, they both came to appreciate their quiet life together, and Frodo loved his uncle dearly. He also liked to think that his presence had calmed something in Bilbo, who now restricted his travels to one-or-two-day jaunts, and one longer trip every year in the winter.

It was this journey that Frodo was dreading. While he no longer feared that he was being left at Brandy Hall permanently for some unknown offence, he still did not enjoy being forced to leave Bag End while his uncle gallivanted off to...wherever he went. Frodo knew that he was too young to be left entirely on his own, but he wished that he could stay closer to Hobbiton if he couldn’t travel with Bilbo. Maybe the Gamgees could be convinced to let him stay with them?

Which reminded him…

He dug around in the piles of clothes for a soft, cream-colored shirt that had been cut too large in the shoulders. It hung strangely on Frodo’s lean frame, but Samwise would probably fill it out perfectly...ah! He held it up in front of him, admiring the fine cotton and the subtle carnations stitched in palest green on the collar, only to be startled by the sight of Bilbo standing in the doorway, watching him with keen eyes. 

“I’m sorry, uncle!” he sputtered as he hastily placed the shirt back on the bed. “I didn’t see you standing there.” It sometimes seemed that Bilbo had the ability to become completely invisible when he wanted to!

“It’s fine, my boy, just fine,” Bilbo replied, regarding the chaos of the room with bemusement. “But if you have a moment, supper is ready. And there is something I wished to speak to you about. But wash up, wash up! Goodness knows how much dust some of this has been collecting.”

As always, Bilbo’s tone was a bit hard to parse, but Frodo thought he detected the faintest hint of petulance beneath the ever-present fondness.

He wandered down the hallway after the older hobbit, deftly weaving around stacks of books and papers with ease born of long practice. Though it was only the two of them and their pantry currently consisted of mostly preserved goods for the coming winter, Bilbo had laid out a spread that contained a suspicious number of Frodo’s favorites: maple-glazed carrots; potatoes sliced thin and layered with creamy mushroom sauce; cornbread and honey; a bit of sweet-glazed ham from breakfast that morning; savory bread pudding studded with sausage and sage; and a pear tart for dessert. Frodo suspected that he was being fed into complacency, but that didn’t stop him from taking second and third helpings of Bilbo’s excellent cooking. Conversation was limited to Frodo’s sincere appreciation and Bilbo’s distracted (but pleased) responses. 

After the last crumb had been polished off, the leftovers stored away safely, and the kitchen returned to its orderly state, Bilbo cleared his throat. Frodo felt a prickle of apprehension, though he couldn’t say why. It was likely that this was simply Bilbo’s announcement of the date of his departure, and Frodo’s yearly exile. Still...the memory of of those first anxious Yules back in Buckland made him feel like the last bite of tart was still stuck in his throat. 

“I was wondering, Frodo, if you would join me at the table? There is something I wish to discuss with you,” Bilbo began, unaware of Frodo’s inner turmoil. 

“Of course, Uncle. Is there anything I can get for you while I’m still up? A glass of wine, perhaps?” Frodo was already walking in the direction of the cellar. 

“Oh, go on, then,” Bilbo chortled after him. “And a small glass for yourself, as well. If I'm to corrupt you and tear asunder all traces of respectability that your parents managed to instill in you, as Lobelia Sackville-Baggins likes to say, I shall do the thing properly,” he drawled.

Frodo couldn’t help but smile at the absurdity of the idea of Bilbo corrupting anyone, and he felt a little tension leave him as he filled one glass with Bilbo’s favorite red wine, and a small snifter of sweet white for himself. Whatever Bilbo wanted to speak to him about, it would not change the fact that this was his home now, Bilbo wanted him there, and this is where he’d return regardless of where he spent the winter.

With liquid fortification sorted out (and Frodo’s nerves more settled), Bilbo cleared his throat again. “It’s nearly Yule, my boy, and I imagine you’re not eager about the prospect of spending the month at Brandy Hall. You are twenty-six now, certainly old enough to make the decision of where to spend your time.” Bilbo paused to take a sip of his wine, and Frodo’s heart pounded.

“I was wondering if you might like to accompany me this year, instead. You are free to say no, of course. You could stay in Hobbiton with one of your friends, perhaps. Or…”

“No! I want to come with you, Uncle Bilbo!” Frodo interrupted, excitement making him forget his manners.The very thing he had not dared hope for! No exile to Buckland, no babysitting his cousins! Instead, he would have an adventure all his own, with Bilbo by his side! Truly, it felt like a second birthday and Yule rolled into one. 

“Now, Frodo, there’s no need to shout,” Bilbo chided, though the twitch at the corner of his lips belied how pleased he was. “It’s only a short journey. Two weeks of travel either way. Nothing to fuss over. And before you agree, I want to make sure you know what you’re getting into.” 

Bilbo’s demeanor became less amused all of a sudden. He hummed nervously while patting his waistcoat with a heavy hand, fingers twitching toward his pocket, before he realized what he was doing and wrapped them firmly around the stem of his wineglass instead. Frodo did not understand the sudden tension, but he sat up straighter regardless. Whatever Bilbo seemed so reluctant to tell him, it must be important. 

“I’m sure it can’t be _too_ terrible,” Frodo ventured, taking a tiny sip of wine and savoring the sweet burn. This was a guess on his part; he had no idea if it was true. But he trusted Bilbo, and that faith had yet to steer him wrong.

“No, no, nothing terrible, indeed!” Bilbo exclaimed. “I simply have no idea where I should begin!” He finished this declaration with another hearty draught of wine. His glass now half-empty.

“Well…” Frodo hesitated, “Perhaps you could start with where we will be traveling?”

“You are right, my boy. As usual,” Bilbo approved, and Frodo glowed at the compliment. 

“We will be traveling to Ered Luin. You might know them better as the Blue Mountains.”.

Frodo was a little surprised, truth be told. He had assumed they might travel East, as Bilbo had often headed that direction in the years before taking Frodo in. There were fantastic lands filled with important people to the East; some of them had featured in the fabled Quest for Erebor. But on Bilbo’s maps, the roads West led only to mountains and the sea. He couldn’t recall any settlements of note.

“Will we be visiting someone who lives there?” Frodo queried. He finished off the rest of his wine in one gulp.

“Yes, of course! Several someones, in fact. It’s been a long time since I visited. I’m sure they will be more than happy to host us for a good long while. Dís has been eager to meet you ever since I shared my intention to make you my heir. If her hands weren’t full keeping the mountain running, she would likely have come knocking years ago!” Bilbo laughed.

“Ah, but I get ahead of myself. Ered Luin is home to the dwarves. There are a few elves scattered here and there, but they largely keep to themselves.” 

“Oh! Are we going to meet some of the dwarves from your adventure?” Frodo asked, excited.

“Only two of them, I’m afraid. If we’re lucky! The rest have settled in Erebor. One passed to the halls of his fathers, may he rest in peace. A few were undertaking an expedition to Moria, but it has been quite some time since I heard from them last.” He paused for a moment, perturbed. Very few people had lapsed in their correspondence with Bilbo without receiving a sharply-worded missive for their inattention.

“Nevertheless,” he continued, “Thorin and Dís will be more than happy to receive us.”

“Thorin?” Now, _this_ name drew Frodo’s attention, even through the warm haze of wine.

“Yes, Thorin. Is that a problem?” Bilbo replied, a bit too innocently.

“No, no. Not at all. It’s just...in your stories, uncle, wasn’t Thorin...dead?”

“Ah. Well, that is certainly the more interesting tale, isn’t it? Very heroic. But no, Frodo, Thorin is very much alive. Approaching his 249th birthday, in fact!” 

“But...why would you say he’s dead when he isn’t?”

“Oh, many reasons. Mostly he prefers it that way, so I indulge him. I don’t think it matters much, in this corner of the world. But there are those who still might seek to do him harm, and he has had enough of that for a lifetime.”

Frodo thought about this for a moment. “It sounds like you care about him a great deal, Uncle.”

“I do. He is...well. He’s quite extraordinary. And he certainly deserved a better hand than Fate dealt him! At least in my silly stories, he can achieve some small measure of what he fought so hard for. The lord of silver fountains, come into his own." Bilbo's lips twisted bitterly at this. "The reality, I'm afraid, is a bit more complicated. He abdicated in favor of his cousin Dáin, who rules there even now. And he returned home, to the life he lived before the quest.”

There was more of a story there, Frodo realized, than Bilbo was sharing. Curiosity almost drove him to ask, but he was loath to interrupt when his uncle was revealing so much about himself in one conversation, heavily edited as it was. Frodo wondered if _anyone_ in the Shire had ever heard what he was being told tonight. He thought not, because surely they would never have talked of anything else ever again! Frodo felt important, special, to be granted this piece of Bilbo.

“I arrived back in The Shire a few weeks before he did. He spent months recovering from his injuries...even a week or two in the care of Lord Elrond, which he’s been sour about ever since. My taste for adventure was awakened just as his was extinguished, sadly. But still, he stayed with me. We wed in the manner of dwarves...oh, that would have been some forty-odd years ago. But when our old bones needed a rest...”

“Wed?!” Frodo burst out. “Uncle, are you telling me that you are married? To a Dwarven King?!” Truly, this was more difficult to believe than dragons, trolls, and stone giants! His uncle, eternal bachelor of Bag End, who had crushed the hopes of every ambitious young lass and their mothers in the Westfarthing, _married_? To _royalty_?! His head was spinning, and not a bit of it was from the wine. 

“Heavens no, Frodo, haven’t you been listening?” Bilbo scoffed. “He renounced his claim. He is as any other dwarf now. A Lord, at best. But only so because his sister, the Lady Dís, has ruled in Ered Luin for many years. His title, such as it is, is largely through her.”

“Still...married!” He paused, uncertain. “Why do you not live together? Surely there is enough room for him in Bag End? Or for you in his mountains?”

“Well, as I was saying, before I was interrupted...we _did_ eventually stop traveling. I missed the Shire. I wanted soft grass between my toes, familiar faces at the market, my father’s books on the shelves. But Thorin craved more peace and quiet than Hobbiton could offer. All those gossiping neighbors sticking their noses in our business; I can hardly blame him. He felt ill-at-ease at the idea of being so far from his kin, and the only dwarf for miles, besides. We argued for weeks about where we should live that would not leave both of us bitter for the rest of our lives. Then tragedy struck, and that made the decision for us. He went to Ered Luin to be with his family, and there he has remained. We write each other, of course, and see one another as often as we can. No husband of mine is going to disappear into the wild and forget who he’s married to!” Bilbo finished with an offended sniff. 

Frodo’s mind was reeling. So much made sense now! Bilbo’s travels; the long scrolls tucked out of sight as soon as Frodo entered his study; the loneliness that clung to him like a shadow; the way he always stared off into the distance when he thought no one was looking. Bilbo hadn’t been missing his adventures...he had been missing his husband. 

“Well, that’s the whole of it, Frodo,” Bilbo proclaimed, throwing back the last of his wine. “Or at least, as much of it as I can tell you right now. Are you certain you still wish to travel with me?” 

Frodo looked at Bilbo. Really _looked_. Under the forced casualness, Frodo could clearly see the strain simmering beneath. His uncle’s eyes were uncertain, his mouth downturned, his hands unconsciously playing with his empty wineglass. Bilbo was _afraid_ , he realized. Afraid that Frodo would say no, would reject this new information and Bilbo along with it. 

Frodo pushed his chair out and came to Bilbo’s side, wrapping the older hobbit in a careful hug. Beneath his hands, he noticed Bilbo’s thin shoulders for the first time. His uncle has always been so bombastic, so larger-than-life, that this reality of fragile bones and an equally fragile heart was almost unbearable.

“When do we leave?”


	2. Chapter 2

Even learning more about the truth of Bilbo's great adventure couldn’t prepare Frodo for the reality of watching the older hobbit puttering around the house the next week, mumbling about winter weather while packing trail bread, nuts, and dried venison in neat bundles on the dining room table. The storyteller and the wayfarer may have been one and the same, but Frodo had only been acquainted with the former his entire life. He supposed he had always assumed his uncle's tales were slightly exaggerated...that he had become friends with dwarves in some mundane way, then made the impetuous decision to travel with them for a short time. And if his wildest yarns contained even a small kernel of truth, Bilbo's own part must have been overstated; his role magnified to appeal to an audience of mostly impressionable hobbit faunts.

As their rucksacks steadily expanded — Bilbo's worn and stained, Frodo's stiff and new — it became clear that not only was Bilbo a well-seasoned traveler, but the prospect of leaving the Shire made him very happy, indeed. Though perhaps it was less the leaving, and more the excitement of seeing his...well…his _dwarf_ again. And if that revelation didn’t continue to make Frodo shake his head in amazement…! Whatever the reasons, Bag End had never been so busy in Frodo’s memory, full of bustle and clatter and even snatches of an old traveling song: 

_“The Road goes ever on and on,_  
_Down from the door where it began._  
_Now far ahead the Road has gone,_  
_And I must follow, if I can…”_

The morning of their departure dawned clear and cold. Frodo shivered despite his warm cloak as he hurried to deliver an envelope containing instructions and what amounted to a year’s worth of wages to the Gamgee residence.

(“It’s worth every penny!” Bilbo had sworn as he sealed the dispatch, “There’s no one in all the West that I trust more than Hamfast to keep Bag End safe while we’re away!” Frodo suspected it was the recent illness of Bell Gamgee that had stretched Bilbo’s already ludicrous generosity, but that was neither here nor there.)

“Well, Frodo, there’s nothing like a brisk walk to heat the blood on a winter’s day, wouldn’t you agree?” Bilbo greeted upon his return. Frodo mumbled an affirmative, surprised to see a short sword belted at his uncle’s hip, the hilt only just visible beneath his winter cloak. Perhaps even more surprisingly, the sword looked as though it belonged there just as much as his walking stick, which was used to push the gate closed behind them as they strode down the hill and into Hobbiton proper. Bilbo used his free hand to wave cheerfully to the few hobbits awake and outside on this frosty morn. 

The next fortnight passed in a haze of foggy vistas and tired, muddy feet. As eager as Frodo had been to gaze upon new lands, the weather didn’t cooperate, mostly granting him views of ghostly, mist-wreathed trees and the shadowy suggestion of distant mountains. They passed beyond the boundaries of the Shire with little fanfare, skirting the Rushock Bog and crossing the River Lune in what Bilbo claimed was excellent time.

While Bilbo had certainly packed plenty of food, their usual seven meals a day had been whittled down to four, eaten in haste before continuing their trek during the day, or falling exhausted into their bedrolls at night. While they often walked in silence for hours, Bilbo would occasionally test Frodo’s knowledge of Sindarin, or regale him with stories of the Quest for Erebor, with remarkably more detail than Frodo recalled from the tales of his faunthood.

On the twelth night, they entered what Bilbo’s map called “The Vale of Thrain.” Bilbo assured him that they would reach the dwarven settlement the next day, and in celebration they decided to use the last of their precious supply of hard cheese to make the waybread more palatable. Frodo fell asleep that night dreaming of hammers striking anvils in endless showers of sparks.

As they emerged from the trees the next morning, Bilbo’s step began to quicken. By the time they came round the final bend and caught sight of two massive statues on either side of the path, Frodo was trotting to keep up with his uncle’s pace. A dark shape shifted on the stone shoulder of one figure before rising into the air in a flurry of feathers and strident squawking. A raven, if Frodo was not mistaken, but the largest of its kind he had ever seen! The enormous bird executed a lazy figure-eight around both statues before turning and flying away from them, further up the path and into the shadowed crevices of the mountain pass. 

“I’m sure he’s letting the guard know that we’ve arrived,” Bilbo remarked offhandedly, not slowing his pace one whit, even as Frodo gaped at the fearsome countenances of the statues; Dwarven warriors in full battle armor, carved in painstaking detail with swords held aloft, pointed menacingly at potential intruders. “Take heart, my boy! Soon you’ll be treated to the fabled hospitality of the dwarves of the Blue Mountains!” The twinkle in Bilbo’s eye could mean anything, Frodo mused, as he huffed after his uncle. Perhaps he was commenting on the intimidating display being the first thing a visitor encountered. Then again, he could be referring to the rude way in which his dwarven friends had first invaded Bag End. More likely, as was often the case with Bilbo, he meant both at once, and even more besides.

The further they walked, the more the mountain seemed to loom over them, steadily dimming what little remained of the wan winter sunlight. Yet as the natural daylight was eclipsed by stone, small lanterns began to appear beside the road. Inside their glass housings were crystals in hues of blue and green, and while the light they emitted was dim, it was enough to see their way clearly enough. Frodo would have liked to examine one to tell Merry about later, but with Bilbo continuing at such a determined pace, he would have to sprint to catch up again. Perhaps he’d get a better look on the return journey.

Abruptly, the slate-grey sky became visible once again as the path opened up to reveal a clearing, and a tremendous stone edifice. This time Frodo couldn’t help but stop, utterly gobsmacked by the sight. This was the entrance to the Dwarven halls; what else could it _possibly_ be? Carved straight into the mountain, it rose two hundred feet above them, easily. Nary a curve could be seen; every stone was cut at a sharp angle, every turret and step and relief was heavy and square. It was an imposing structure, meant to withstand a siege. Frodo did not assume it was meant to be beautiful, but its precise, severe grandeur could not be denied.

And standing at the top the central staircase was a dwarf in a long blue robe, flanked by two burly escorts bristling with weapons and purpose. Frodo could clearly tell that this was a person of importance. Where the two guards were clearly outfitted for function rather than form, with wild beards and battle-scarred helmets that covered all but their eyes, the figure between them was meticulously dressed, braids and beads intricately woven from the crown of their dark head to below their chin. When he and Bilbo reached the base of the steps, Frodo realized that the robe was actually a heavy velvet gown, adorned with gems and shot through with golden thread. The dwarf’s face was open and welcoming, with well-defined creases at the corners of their eyes and mouth: evidence of a lifetime of smiling. The lines became even more pronounced when the two travel-stained hobbits stood directly before them. 

“Well met, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire,” the dwarf greeted in a low, pleasing alto, bowing shallowly. The bow that Bilbo gave in return was much deeper, and Frodo quickly followed suit. 

“Lady Dís,” he replied. “You grow more lovely each time I see you.” She laughed, and her guards relaxed a fraction at her clear ease. 

“And you grow more charming.” She offered her hand, which Bilbo took to press a proper, gentlemanly kiss. “If you ever find yourself tiring of my dour brother, I, for one, would not mind taking up residence as the lady of Bag End.” 

“And rob Ered Luin of its fairest jewel? I would never!” 

Dís leaned closer, as if imparting a secret, “Well, for all the things Thorin and I disagree on, I think he remains correct about one fact.” 

“What would that be, my lady?” Bilbo asked, with exaggerated politeness. 

“You really are a terrible burglar.” 

At this, they both laughed, and Frodo smiled uncertainty. It was clearly an old joke between them, but one that he was not privy to. When their merriment finally subsided, she turned her sharp blue eyes to Frodo, offering a more diplomatic smile, though not lacking in warmth. Regardless, Frodo felt himself quaver at the attention. The very presence of this dwarf commanded respect, no matter how kind her face or how friendly she was with his uncle. 

“Welcome to Ered Luin. I am Dís, Lady of the Keep. Would I be correct in assuming that you are Frodo Baggins, Bilbo’s cousin and heir?” 

“I am, my lady. But he calls me his nephew. It’s easier than ‘first cousin, once removed.’” Internally he groaned at this awkward introduction, but he couldn’t help it! He felt tongue-tied in the presence of such a grand dwarf, standing in front of this equally grand structure, wearing his traveling clothes, and under the watchful eye of Bilbo. 

She, of course, took his lackluster response fully in stride. “That’s much more sensible, I agree! Dwarven family trees are nearly as complicated as Hobbit ones, or so I’ve been told. At least no one in the Shire likely to demand an honor duel if one forgets who married whom.” 

"You’d be surprised,” Bilbo interjected, deftly relieving Frodo of the burden of trying to come up with something more witty to say in response. With another warm smile, Dís turned and led them through the massive doorway and into the main foyer of the Keep. 

The doors swung closed behind them, stealing away the last sliver of watery grey sunlight. Frodo paid no mind, for the sight before his eyes captivated his attention entirely. The room was so large that a hundred Brandy Halls could fit inside of it! All around its perimeter were massive square columns, each bearing a torch taller than a Man. From this main room, he could see darkened doorways leading even further into the settlement, and criss-crossed pathways high above their heads, nearly disappearing into the shadow of the mountain. Dwarves were not so very much larger than hobbits, yet every inch of this place seemed designed to make those who gazed upon it feel tiny. 

Dís had stopped, allowing him to marvel for a moment. The pride in her face was obvious, but she waited for him to get his bearings without interruption. Bilbo was grinning widely. 

"A bit bigger than Bag End, eh, Frodo?” he cackled, clearly enjoying the younger hobbit’s dumbfounded expression. 

“I’ve never seen anything like it! Is this the entire city? Do those hallways lead to the living quarters? How did you climb high enough to carve the walkways?” Frodo had so many questions, he felt like he might explode with them! 

Dís laughed lightly, and her mirth combined with the torchlight softened her careworn features. 

“You will be with us for some time, Bilbo has assured me. I would be happy to answer any questions you have, but perhaps you would like to freshen up after your long journey?” she suggested politely. 

Now that she mentioned it, Frodo _did_ feel a bit gritty. The rivers and streams they had crossed had been far too cold to bathe in. He tugged a matted curl self-consciously. 

“You are most kind, my lady. If it isn’t too much trouble…” 

“Of course not!” She gestured to her guards, who stepped forward in unison. “Nath and Hoin will show you both to your quarters. And perhaps you will join us for supper? Thorin should be back by then.” 

Bilbo spoke for them both. “You are, as ever, a most gracious host. We would be happy to join you for the evening meal. Though if Thorin returns earlier, would you please send for me?” 

“Of course, old friend,” she agreed. “Until supper.” 

Bows were exchanged once again, Dís departed, and the two guards marched toward one of the countless shadowed archways. The hobbits hastened after them as quickly as they could when one of them kept stopping to admire every carving, rune, and sculpture they encountered. (“They will still be here later, Frodo! Come along!” “But how will I ever _find_ them again?”) 

Once they were finally in their quarters, Frodo was introduced to perhaps the most magnificent Dwarven invention of all: a sunken stone tub, with hot water continually piped in from natural hot springs within the mountain. There was enough room for ten hobbits to fit comfortably, so he and Bilbo luxuriated in its bubbling depths until they were red as crawfish and cleaner than they had been in years. The heat had relaxed Frodo so thoroughly that he could barely tug a sleepshirt out of his pack before stumbling face-first onto one of the two massive beds; the mattress felt as soft as a cloud after two weeks of lying on cold dirt with rocks and twigs digging into his back. Bilbo declined to join him, but unpacked their rucksacks as quietly as possible while Frodo surrendered to his exhaustion. 

Hours later, or perhaps it was only moments, Frodo was roused by hushed voices from their doorway. Bilbo spoke in clipped tones to whoever was in the hall, while the mystery individual replied so quietly that Frodo could almost believe Bilbo was speaking to himself. Unable to keep his eyes open, he fell back into slumber before he could ask Bilbo whom he was talking to. 

Some time later, he was brought completely back to the waking world by a gentle shake to his shoulder. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, Frodo noticed fuzzily that his uncle had changed clothes while he slept. The cream shirt and tan trousers he had donned after their bath had been replaced by a crisp white shirt, blue waistcoat with repeating geometric patterns, and soft grey pants that matched his silver-toned ascot. 

“How long was I asleep?” Frodo muttered, stifling a yawn 

“About six hours, my boy. It’s time for supper.” 

“Already? But I haven’t even…” 

Bilbo gestured to the foot of the bed, where an outfit had been carefully laid out for him. 

“Thank you, uncle. You’re a life-saver!” Frodo exclaimed. His own ensemble subtly matched Bilbo’s, though the colors were more muted, and he was apparently being permitted to forego neckwear. “This is beautiful,” he added as he gently ran one finger down the pearly buttons of the waistcoat. 

“Well, I couldn’t allow you to make a poor first impression,” Bilbo replied loftily, but Frodo suspected he was just happy that someone was actually showing appreciation for the clothing that he had selected, for once. 

Elegantly attired, curls brushed, and foot hair neatly combed, Frodo and Bilbo stepped out into the dimly-lit hallway. Frodo could already tell that he would be hopelessly lost in a moment without a guide while he was here. Everything looked exactly the same! Bilbo, at least, seemed to have an idea of where they were going. After what felt like twenty turns down the exact same corridors, Frodo was surprised to find himself standing before a set of double doors that were nearly twenty feet tall and covered in a mosaic of sparkling gems. The two guards that they had first met...Noth? Hane?...stood sentry. 

Almost as if their approach had been overheard, one giant door swung open from the inside, and a blonde head peeked around the corner. 

“Mother! Thorin! They’re here!” the new dwarf shouted into the room behind him. 

“Then let them in!” they heard Dís call back from somewhere inside. “Don’t leave out guests out there to starve!” 

“My apologies, dear hobbits,” the dwarf addressed them politely, and allowed the door to open wider, revealing a beautifully-appointed receiving room in hues of red and purple. 

“Never you mind, Fíli,” Bilbo exclaimed, pulling the dwarf down for a hug. “I’m so happy that you’re here! Thorin said that you were spending the winter with the elves.” 

“I’d never choose a bunch of weed-eaters over my favorite uncle,” Fíli assured him. He turned to Frodo and executed a neat bow. “And you must be Master Frodo. I’m honored to make your acquaintance.” 

“Just Frodo, please,” he replied, offering an awkward bow in return. 

Fíli looked nothing like his mother, he decided. Dis’s features were pale and sharp, her hair dark but for some greying at the temples, her form sturdy. By contrast, her son was ruddy-cheeked and golden, taller than Frodo by several inches, and lean...at least, lean by hobbit standards. He would never know they were related, had he not been told so. Fíli was also younger than any other dwarves he had met thus far, though “young” was relative when one measured a lifespan in two-and-three-hundred-year increments. He had probably been barely of age when he joined the quest to reclaim Erebor. 

“Were you the dwarf from my uncle’s stories that shot the arrow at the boat in Mirkwood?” Frodo guessed. 

“Alas, I’m afraid not. That was my brother, Kíli. He passed into the halls of our fathers many years ago.” The wrinkles around Fíli’s eyes deepened slightly for a moment, but his tone remained even. “I have always been more gifted with a sword than a bow and arrow.” 

“I’m sorry!” Frodo lamented. What a terrible first impression, bringing up someone’s dead sibling not two minutes after meeting them! “I did not know…” 

“Do not fret!” Fíli was quick to reassure. “He would be happy to know that tales of his achievements have continued to live on in hobbit legend.” 

Frodo was not appeased. He knew all too well the gut-punched feeling he experienced when someone carelessly mentioned his parents. He was very sorry to have done the same thing to Fíli, who seemed like a kind dwarf. 

Thankfully for all involved, he was spared the trouble of making further apologies by the appearance of Lady Dís and a second, silver-haired dwarf who trailed behind her. Bilbo, who had remained quiet during the exchange between his adopted nephew and nephew-by-marriage, immediately jumped in to greet them. 

“Dís! How wonderful to see you again. And _you_!” He turned abruptly to the other dwarf, who stopped in his tracks, looking alarmed. “You old reprobate! I received your message this afternoon. ‘Delayed,’ my foot! The day I’m unable to greet my spouse after he’s traveled for weeks in the wintertime to see me is the day they put me into the ground. Let me look at you.” Without so much as a by-your-leave, Bilbo reached up and cupped his hands on the other’s cheeks, turning the dwarf’s head this way and that for inspection. 

“I think you’re finally as grey as me now. What a delight! It took you long enough. But come now, come! I must introduce you to someone.” He hooked his arm through the dwarf’s and tugged him back to where Fíli and Frodo were watching the exchange with delight and bewilderment, respectively. Dís’s smile was smug. 

“Thorin, this is my nephew and heir, Frodo Baggins,” he proclaimed with pride. “Frodo, this is Thorin Oakenshield, erstwhile King of Erebor and my husband of many years.” It was obvious to all assembled that this was an incredibly important moment for the hobbit. 

Frodo and Thorin regarded each other curiously, before Thorin extended his hand, and Frodo clasped it in greeting. 

“Well met, Frodo Baggins. It is a great honor to finally meet you,” Thorin murmured gruffly, shaking the younger hobbit’s hand twice before pulling away. Even from that short contact, Frodo could feel the carefully-controlled strength in his grip, and the calluses that spoke of a lifetime of hard labor. 

“Likewise.”

If Fíli was Dis’s opposite, then Thorin was her mirror image. He was taller than anyone else in the room by half a head, but the two siblings shared a similarly stocky build. Furthermore, their countenances were perfectly replicated in the other: heavy brows, narrow mouth, long chin, a thin blade of a nose. Where they differed was the eyes: hers were round and deep-set, while Thorin’s were slightly almond-shaped, lending him a naturally suspicious stare. Also, where Dís had no outward blemishes that Frodo could see, Thorin had a prominent scar that bisected his right eyebrow, and many more lines than his sister. Frodo wouldn’t call him handsome, exactly, but there was something incredibly compelling about the arrangement of his features that made it difficult to look away. 

All in all, Thorin didn't look much like a legend, he thought. But then again, neither did Bilbo.

Supper was a lavish affair. There were dishes both familiar and foreign, and he tried a little bit of each of them. Dwarves, as a rule, seemed to eschew vegetables unless they were smothered in enough sauce or gravy as to be completely unrecognizable. By contrast, every manner of beast and fowl seemed to be represented: there was rabbit stew, pork, beef roast, guinea hens, turkey, and trout, all arranged beautifully on great silver platters. Dís had arranged for them to dine privately in her rooms as opposed to the main dining hall, which Frodo was incredibly grateful for; he wasn’t sure how he would have managed being stared at by a room full of strangers while he tried to eat. When he shared this with the rest of the table, Bilbo assured him that the other dwarves would be too busy shoving food in their gobs like the world was about to end to pay any attention to his table manners. No one disagreed with him. 

The less formal setting also allowed Frodo to surreptitiously observe how his uncle and Thorin interacted. Thorin, he had quickly learned, was the very definition of “taciturn.” He spoke only when spoken to, and his responses were clipped. He could be coaxed to smile, more often by Bilbo than his blood relatives, but they were fleeting things, hidden with a bent head and a curtain of steel-grey hair. Still, he was an attentive listener, giving his full attention to whomever was speaking at that moment. And whenever there was a break in the conversation, his eyes would immediately slide to Bilbo, as if he couldn’t stop himself from watching the hobbit. 

Bilbo, on the other hand, was much the same as he always was. A natural showman, he held the attention of everyone at the table effortlessly. Even Frodo, who had heard the same tales many times before — and even featured in some of them, much to his embarrassment — found himself laughing along with everyone else. If forced to to pinpoint a difference, he would say that that Bilbo seemed a bit less restrained than usual. His laughs were louder, his humor a bit less polite. Between one anecdote and the next, his hand would often settle on Thorin’s shoulder or forearm, a silent but clearly habitual display of familiarity. 

Frodo wasn’t sure how he felt about it all just yet. Seeing his uncle behaving affectionately toward someone in a romantic sense was unexpected, perhaps, but not off-putting. That the someone in question was a male dwarf didn’t trouble Frodo, either. Doing the unexpected was very much a part of Bilbo’s nature, and the lines were often blurred between the things Bilbo did that were _considered_ unrespectable by other hobbits, and the things he did purely _because_ other hobbits found them unrespectable. Thorin clearly fell into the first category. 

“Frodo,” Dís called across the table during a lull. “Would you be amenable to meeting me tomorrow morning? I would love to give you a tour of Ered Luin.” Frodo was more than happy to accept her offer. 

“Uncle Bilbo, will you be joining us? Or would you prefer to sleep until midday, as usual?” he added, cheekily. 

Thorin snorted, the first time he had directly reacted to anything Frodo said, while Fíli muffled a guffaw behind his napkin. Bilbo rolled his eyes at all three of them. 

“Look at the way they treat me!” he directed at Dís. “I’m surrounded on all sides!” he added, waving his hands dramatically for emphasis. 

“And I’m sure there’s nowhere else you’d rather be,” she rejoined shrewdly. “You are absolutely welcome to join us, of course. Perhaps it would make Frodo more comfortable to have a familiar face there." 

Frodo jumped in before Bilbo could reply. “No, no, I’ll be fine! I see Bilbo every day, so I would rather he get a chance to visit with all of you while we’re here.” 

“That’s very kind of you, Frodo,” Dís responded warmly. “We won’t steal him away entirely, I promise.” 

“Indeed!” Bilbo chortled. “I’ll be wanting to test your Sindarin on the neighbors while we’re here.” 

(That statement rapidly diminished Thorin’s mirth, Frodo noticed.) 

The evening wound down, times for tomorrow’s excursions were arranged, and Frodo thanked everyone profusely once again for their generous hospitality. He, Dís, and Fíli did their best to grant Bilbo some semblance of privacy as he pulled Thorin aside for a hushed conversation. 

Still, he couldn’t help but notice when his uncle wrapped his arms around Thorin’s waist, holding him wordlessly. Thorin enfolded Bilbo’s smaller form gently, eyes closed as he settled his cheek on Bilbo’s curly head. They embraced for only a moment, but it somehow seemed like much longer. 

He didn’t know why, exactly, but the sight made Frodo’s chest ache. 


	3. Chapter 3

Those first few days exploring Ered Luin, Frodo could hardly believe that any place shaped by mortal hands could be so impossibly huge. He had assumed the foyer made up the bulk of the dwarvish settlement, so it was a shock to discover that it was only the gateway to a sprawling underground city. He hung onto Dís’s every word as she explained the meaning behind each statue and carving they passed, of which there were many. (Most involved long, bloody battles with dwarves always emerging triumphant.) She also regaled him with tales of lost Belegost and Nogrod, which had both fallen into the sea in the war against Morgoth. Much of what had been built by since, she explained, had been modeled on tales of those legendary cities. 

Frodo’s favorite places were the caves where the common dwarves had built their homes. They were so deep within the mountain that they existed in perpetual darkness, so giant crystals — like the ones he had seen in the lanterns, but a hundred times larger — had been installed in the rocky floor, bathing the caverns in a watery blue-green-violet light. The artificial twilight lent everything a magical air, Frodo thought, like something out of a fairy tale.

When Dís was busy with administrative tasks, Fíli took it upon himself to play the part of guide. Frodo was careful not mention his late brother again, but Fíli seemed unable to help himself from doing so. Ered Luin had been their home since childhood; every landmark held a memory, usually of pranks played on unsuspecting nobles and family members. Frodo could very easily imagine the trouble that a young Fíli and Kíli (who in his mind behaved very much like Merry and Pippin) could have gotten into.

He could spend a lifetime exploring this place and barely scratch the surface of it. As happy as it made him to be shown such wondrous sights, things which most hobbits could barely dream of, he was increasingly — and uncomfortably — aware that the world outside the Shire must be incomprehensibly vast, if this single mountain range held so many secrets.

Bilbo did indeed take him to visit elves that lived near the dwarven settlement. This was one of the only occasions that Thorin accompanied them anywhere, and he did so silently, with only the barest hint of civility toward their elvish hosts. Bilbo mostly ignored his glowering spouse, choosing instead to congratulate Frodo on how well he was coming along in his studies.

Frodo did not know what Thorin did with the rest of his time, when he wasn’t with Bilbo. He suspected it had to do with the forges, as he carried the scent of molten metal with him everywhere he went. Dís and Fíli ruled jointly and appeared remarkably popular with their subjects; there didn’t seem to be a place here for a king without a crown. 

The passing of time was difficult to gauge underground. It felt like they had only been here for a fortnight, perhaps, but Bilbo assured him that Afteryule was nearly ended. Frodo did not know when they intended to leave, and in truth he was not eager to return for some time yet. Bilbo, he thought, must have shared his reluctance, for while they spoke late into the night about all the wonders of Ered Luin, they never mentioned the Shire, as though by avoiding saying its name they could delay the reality of having to go back to it. 

Frodo suspected that their adventure was nearing an end, however, when for three nights in a row Bilbo did not return to their quarters. He was always there in the morning to wake Frodo and accompany him to breakfast, but he made no mention of what was keeping him away in the evenings.

\----------------

Frodo had already climbed into bed, and Bilbo was sitting at the desk in front of the fire, scribbling away, when a heavy knock sounded at the door. Bilbo muttered to himself, pausing at Frodo’s bedside to check and see if the younger hobbit had awakened, before going to answer it. Frodo was not actually asleep, but he kept his eyes firmly shut anyway, and even added a sleepy little snuffle for good measure. He had a niggling instinct that something may happen this evening that would fill in some of the gaps Bilbo had left in his stories, but only if he remained absolutely quiet.

“Frodo is asleep,” Bilbo told their visitor, with some irritation. “So you should keep your voice down, if you can manage it.”

“I am sorry. I can return at some other time,” came Thorin’s unmistakable rumble.

“You’re already here, so you might as well come in.” The door closed, and there was a moment of strained silence before Bilbo spoke again.

“Did you have something you needed to say, or are you going to glare into the fireplace all night?”

Another long pause. “I wanted to apologize for my words earlier,” Thorin said, haltingly. “I was frustrated, and I spoke in anger.”

“You are absurd,” Bilbo replied waspishly, in lieu of an acceptance. “I knew you didn’t mean it, or I would have tossed you off the terrace then and there.”

“Even if you knew, it does not excuse what I said,” Thorin insisted. “I should apologize for my errors instead of assuming that those around me know the meaning behind what I say. That is what you always tell me, at least.”

“Oh, come here, you daft thing,” Bilbo sighed, all traces of anger fleeing as quickly as they had appeared. There was a rustle of fabric, and Frodo assumed that Bilbo had pulled Thorin into an apologetic hug. For several moments, there was no sound but the crackle of flames and Frodo’s careful breathing.

“Come now, sit by me here,” Bilbo finally broke the silence. “I don’t want a crick in my neck from staring up at you all night.” A soft patter of feet on the warm stone floor, and then the overstuffed chaise by the fireplace creaked. Frodo cracked open his lids just a fraction; by looking in the full-length mirror that faced his bed, he could see his uncle and Thorin sitting side by side, their hands clasped on the seat between them. 

“So what did you mean, if not what you said?” Bilbo coaxed, when it seemed unlikely that Thorin would resume their conversation without prompting.

“I was...concerned for your safety,” Thorin admitted. “When you said you wished to spend time with your Elvish friends alone, I recalled the skirmish that took Kíli away from us. I was afraid that a small group of elves would be no match for a pack of winter-starved orcs, should more of their kind be lurking near settlements not patrolled by us. My fear overrode my judgement.”

“Was that all that sparked your temper?” Bilbo probed.

“No,” he replied, reluctantly. “Our time together is short. The thought of you spending two days away from me when you are already leaving so soon...it pained me. I would not lose one moment with you, while I am fortunate enough to have you here.”

“Absurd,” Bilbo repeated softly, with unmistakable affection.

There was another long pause, and Frodo wondered if this was the end of their discussion. He had never heard Thorin speak this much before; was he like this only with Bilbo? Or was he still so unsure around Frodo that he was too uncomfortable to speak freely?

“I am glad that you brought Frodo with you,” Thorin remarked suddenly, and Frodo had to fight not to jump at hearing his own name. “He is as bright and good-natured as you said in your letters.”

“I’m afraid I can take little credit for his best qualities,” was Bilbo’s rueful reply. “His parents were excellent role models, as adventurous as our kind can be without running after a troupe of dwarves and a mad wizard. And he spent a decade with his mother’s family before he came to live at Bag End. I’ve merely given him more learning than most hobbits bother to receive, and filled his head with wild tales. His merits are entirely his own.”

“I think you do not give yourself enough credit,” Thorin chided. (Frodo agreed wholeheartedly!) “His resilience and eagerness to learn speak strongly of your influence.”

“Yes, well,” Bilbo sniffed, “I am proud of his accomplishments, wherever they come from. He is a good boy, and will be an excellent steward of Bag End when I am gone.”

“Why did you not bring him here sooner?” Thorin continued. “You know that he would have been welcome in our Halls.”

Frodo held his breath. He, too, wished to know the answer to this question.

“Perhaps I wanted to preserve my own place,” was the wry response. “You’ve seen how Dís has taken to him. I fear my position as her favorite Baggins has been usurped.”

Bilbo sighed, then carried on more seriously. “At first, I was afraid to tell him about you. You know how children can be. Before I knew his character better, I thought he might proclaim my business to all and sundry. I know differently now, of course. He is loyal and compassionate, and would never share anything told to him in confidence.” A pause. “I worried he might not understand what you are to me. Men being married to other men is not unheard of amongst hobbits, but it isn’t common. Perhaps the youths are less concerned about it than the older generations. But...I had only just taken him in. He endured months of my fumbling as I learned to live with another, and he did so without complaint. He is, as you say, incredibly bright. He’s brought me great joy in the short time we’ve been together. I could not face the idea that he might...” Bilbo trailed off, unable to speak his fear aloud.

The words may have been unspoken, but to Frodo they rang crystal-clear in the silence, much the way they had on the night Bilbo has proposed the journey to Ered Luin: “That he might reject me, and leave me alone.”

Frodo shut his eyes tightly against the prickle of tears, but he didn’t do it fast enough to miss Thorin’s anguished expression reflected in the mirror, or the way Bilbo clutched the dwarf’s cloak when he was pulled into a strong embrace. He could barely hear Thorin’s murmured reassurances over the pounding of his heart. Hours after Thorin had departed and Bilbo had climbed into bed, Frodo lay awake, his thoughts tumbling over one another like a rockslide, until exhaustion pulled him into an uneasy rest.

\----------------

The next morning, Frodo was not awakened by his uncle. He had no idea what time it was, or where Bilbo might be. He fumbled through his daily ablutions, until he emerged from their shared quarters feeling more or less awake, and ravenous. While he still felt lost in most of Ered Luin, he knew exactly where the dining hall was, and it was there that he decided to head first.

There were always dwarves milling about in this shared space; the continuous mining shifts meant that when one group was just beginning their work, another was leaving it, and both needed to eat. Most paid him no mind after the first or second day, and anyone who still did usually spared him no more than a glance. After filling his plate from the communal board, he looked about for a place to sit, hoping that perhaps Bilbo might be waiting for him. Instead, he saw Thorin sitting by himself, with nothing in front of him but a steaming mug. He met Frodo’s eyes, and inclined his head in what the hobbit interpreted as a “come here” gesture. He wove his way through the other dwarves and sat himself at the table across from Thorin, immediately tucking in to his meal.

“I asked Bilbo if he would mind my spending the morning with you,” Thorin said, without preamble. “He is with Dís, making arrangements for your return journey. If you have other plans, however, we can make time to speak later.”

“No, I don't have other plans,” Frodo replied. He was surprised to hear that they would be leaving soon, since Bilbo had made no mention of it. But he supposed there were many things Bilbo elected to keep himself, especially when they pained him.

Thorin must have taken his answer as acquiescence, for he said no more, only took the occasional sip while he waited for Frodo to finish eating.

When he was done and their dishes were placed in the proper receptacles, Thorin strode purposefully out of the Great Hall and through the labyrinthian corridors that ended at the entrance to the Keep, with Frodo scampering behind him. Rather than heading outside, as he first assumed, Thorin turned down a corridor that Frodo had not seen before — not surprising, considering the size of the city — and led them through a passageway that did not seem to get much foot traffic. The further they walked, the less finished the walkways became. Unlike the main thoroughfares, which were carved at precise angles and inlaid with with intricate geometric patterns, the walls here were rough and unadorned save for crystal lanterns placed at irregular intervals. The air felt staler, more damp. And furthermore, they seemed to be climbing upward, if Frodo’s shortened breath was any indication.

Just as he was about to ask his silent companion where exactly they were going, the corridor lightened. A few more feet, one final turn, and Frodo was suddenly confronted by an unexpected sight: a wide opening had been hewn from the mountain, ten feet across and a foot and a half or so above the ground; the perfect height for a dwarf to lean against without danger of falling. The view it afforded was magnificent; Eriador stretched before them in one endless vista, with nothing obstructing it. They must have been facing southeast, for Frodo could easily identify the curve of the River Lune where he and Bilbo had crossed on their way here. Further away, he glimpsed a grey smudge that could have been the North Moors. Far on the misty horizon, he even fancied he could see the tall trees of Bindbole Wood, just West of Hobbiton.

“This is...absolutely...beautiful!” Frodo panted, hands braced on his thighs. “Did you...do it….yourself?”

“I did not,” Thorin answered, without a hint of strain in his voice. “We excavated this area when we first arrived, but the stone is too porous to safely support more walkways. It can be used as a lookout post, but during times of peace it is mostly forgotten. I like to come here to think.”

 _And to look at the Shire_ , Frodo thought, though he didn’t share his observation aloud. 

Once his lungs were back under control, Frodo felt confident enough to break the silence.

“What did you wish to speak to me about?” Thorin looked taken aback, as if he had expected a bit more polite chit-chat before getting down to business. However, Frodo had observed this dwarf enough to guess that the effort would be wasted. Also, his head was still swimming with emotions from the night before. He knew in which direction he wanted to steer their conversation; small talk would only hinder them both.

“You are very direct,” Thorin observed, not disapprovingly. 

“I can be,” Frodo allowed. “It’s just that, as you say, we will be leaving soon. Yet this is the first time you’ve sought my company. You must have something to say that you don’t want Bilbo to overhear.”

“You are also quick-witted, for one so young.” Thorin’s voice was a little warmer this time. “It reminds me very much of your uncle.”

Frodo didn’t respond. He simply waited, his cheeks stinging from the cold wind.

The dwarf sighed. “You are not incorrect. I am sorry if you have felt that I have been avoiding you. That was never my intention. But I am, as my sister and nephew never hesitate to remind me, not the most socially adept of dwarves. I did not wish to presume familiarity where there was none.”

“Furthermore,” he continued, “Bilbo shared his intention to bring you with him in his letters, but made no mention of how we were to behave together. I erred on the side of caution, and decided not to flaunt our relationship, should it make you uncomfortable.”

“You being married to Bilbo doesn’t bother me,” Frodo interrupted. “It is actually a relief to know that he hasn’t been alone all these years, as most of the Shire believes.”

Thorin’s mouth tightened unhappily, and Frodo wondered if he was, in fact, being _too_ blunt.

“Perhaps he has been alone for longer than he should have, if that is the belief amongst his kin,” Thorin replied. 

“Then why have you lived away from him?” Frodo challenged, sensing that there was an opening here that might lead where he was hoping.

“Why did you pretend to be asleep when I came to your chambers last night?” Thorin countered. There was no heat in his voice, but Frodo was shocked into silence nonetheless. 

“How did you know?” he finally managed, through the embarrassment.

“I helped raise my nephews for many years after the death of their father,” Thorin responded easily. “I know when someone is feigning sleep in order to overhear a conversation that they are not meant to be privy to. You do not need to worry,” he assured the hobbit. “There was nothing said that I did not want you to hear, and I believe Bilbo truly did think you asleep.”

“But why…?”

“It is sometimes easier to share the truth with someone other than the person who most needs to hear it,” Thorin stated. “Which is one of two reasons I wished to speak with you."

Thorin's voice became hesitant, less smooth. "I have been.... _troubled_...recently, regarding Bilbo. Neither of us are growing any younger. I begin to wonder now if our years apart might have done more harm than I realized. As the person closest to him, I hoped you might help me discern the truth.”

“I can't help _anyone_ when I still don’t understand _why_!” Frodo snapped, politeness forgotten. Even he was taken aback by the forcefulness of his own reply, but now that the words were spoken aloud, he would not apologize for them. “Why did you ever decide to separate in the first place?”

This was the crux of the problem, the great mystery that needed an answer before anything else could be resolved.

For a moment, it seemed Thorin might not answer him at all. He gazed out across the Westmarch, and the early morning light made the furrows of his face appear even deeper. He was so still that could have been part of the mountain itself.

“It is...difficult to explain, but I will try,” he began, softly. “Things that seemed very important back then are less pressing now. Much has changed... _we_ have changed. And yet we never revisited our decision; we simply fell into our own routines, and never altered them. I suppose to one as young as yourself, it must seem baffling. Once you become older, though, you begin to find more limitations. You seek smaller spaces to occupy. You do what’s easier, because you are too weary to do anything else.”

Thorin was not wrong about it being baffling, but Frodo held his tongue, with great effort. This dwarf used words in the same way one might use their foot to test the steadiness of a rope bridge: careful, deliberate, ready to pull back to safety in a second. He was clearly still finding his footing.

“After the quest was over, and another sat on the throne that I had sacrificed so much to attain — even though it was the right decision, the one that was best for my people — I was lost, Frodo. My body healed, slowly, but my spirit remained untethered. I left my kin and followed Bilbo because he was the only one who seemed to have a clear direction, and I needed that very badly. I did not share his love of wandering, having had more than my fill of it after the fall of Erebor, but our travels together were the best years of my life. For the first time since childhood, I ruled no one except myself. I learned what kind of dwarf I was, free from the weight of a crown. Bilbo was there with me every step of the way, in good times and ill, the dearest companion I could have asked for.”

Now that Thorin had begun, the words seemed to flow more easily. Frodo was surprised, but not enough to interrupt. It seemed that his curiosity was about to be satisfied at last!

“We had grown...close...on the quest, though neither of us assumed we would survive long enough to fulfill any oaths that were made. When it was only the two of us, miraculously alive, we made good on those promises. He accepted my proposal, and we were married. Somehow we never discussed where we might settle in the future. We knew that we loved one another, and that seemed enough at the time.”

Thorin exhaled heavily before continuing. 

“We couldn’t live on the road forever, though. As the years passed and we both grew older and slower, there were too many close calls, too many instances where a second’s hesitation might have ended in one of our deaths. We did not seek danger, but there are many things in the wild that can kill two travelers. We decided that we needed a place to hang our traveling cloaks for good.”

“Bilbo suggested the Shire. He already had Bag End...filled with comfortable things, and a life that he could slip back into easily. I suggested Ered Luin, for much the same reason. We could not come to an agreement. I can admit now that my pride would not bear the idea of being beholden to anyone, even him. After all the years spent begging and scraping for every morsel, to be offered a home so easily — the very thing I had fought so hard for! — it felt too much like charity. I wanted no part of it.”

“It wasn’t, you know,” Frodo interjected. This topic was too near his own heart to let it lie. “It wasn't charity. He would never offer such a thing out of pity.”

“I know that now,” Thorin agreed. “But I chose not see it at the time. And just as importantly, at least to me, I had already done much to damage Bilbo’s reputation. I did not wish to bring him further shame.”

He continued. “Then, in the midst of our personal strife, Dís sent word that Kíli had died at the hands of a rogue band of orcs here in Ered Luin. It was a miracle our entire company had survived my foolhardy expedition. That my sister-sons had lived to return home was perhaps my only real triumph. To lose one of them so senselessly such a short time later — in a place I believed safe, no less — was agony almost beyond bearing.”

Thorin’s voice was husky with pain, and Frodo wished that he had the words to comfort him, but experience had taught him that there were no platitudes that truly lessened such sorrow. Some things simply had to be endured. Instead he stared straight ahead and pretended not to notice the way Thorin turned his face away to hide his grief. He found his heart softening towards this dwarf, despite himself. If there was anything Frodo understood well, it was loss.

“I returned home to be with my sister and Fíli. Bilbo stayed with me for the entire ‘official’ mourning period, holding me together until I could function again. He encouraged me to keep busy while protecting me from my most self-destructive urges. So I buried my grief in labor, took on every task that needed doing, and by the end of that year I was supervising restoration for all of Ered Luin’s infrastructure. I had woven myself deeply into the fabric of life here once more. We agreed that, for the time being, Bilbo should return to the Shire to keep his relations from presuming him missing yet again, and I should remain here. We arranged to meet in several month’s time to discuss what we should do next. But when that time came, we were simply too happy to be together again, and I had my work to return to, so we put off the discussion until the next time. And so it went, on and on, until without even realizing it, years had passed and we still lived apart.”

Frodo’s chest began to throb. He had been so confident in his belief that Bilbo had been wronged, so ready to leap to his uncle’s defense, that he hadn’t actually considered the idea that Bilbo may have been equally culpable in his own misery. But his certainty was being steadily chipped away by Thorin’s careful, honest words. And yet, the idea that their shared unhappiness was merely the result of them being too stubborn to admit that they needed one another was dreadful. It was somehow more painful for its absolute pointlessness. 

Still, Thorin pressed on.

“I told myself that it was for the best. It was easier for me to imagine him as the master of his own domain once again. He had earned that, after so many years of dedicating himself to one broken dwarf. I willed myself to forget what his home was like when I and my kin invaded it and abused his hospitality so shamefully: a mausoleum, filled with knick-knacks that he couldn’t bear to part with, because what else did he have? There was no family awaiting his return.”

“You’re wrong,” Frodo disagreed, not able to bear any more. He stared hard at the floor to hide his watering eyes. “He had me. Every time he left, I would run after him, begging him to stay. Even before he took me in, he was my hero.”

Thorin clasped the hobbit’s shoulder heavily. “He was mine, as well.” 

Frodo needed a moment to regain his equilibrium. He had blindly — arrogantly — entered this conversation in the hopes of bringing about a specific resolution. Now the waters were muddied with decades of history that he could barely comhrehend. He felt very young and very, very insignificant. His uncle, the eccentric, whimsical, sharp-tongued hobbit that he had admired since faunthood, had lived an entirely separate life as the closest companion to this tragic, legendary king. His stories had been true, and there were clearly countless others he had never shared. Somehow it felt like he did not know Bilbo at all, and yet everything Thorin had told him only reinforced everything he had ever believed. 

“What was the other reason?” Frodo finally croaked out, still overcome but unable to remain silent under the heavy weight of Thorin’s stare. “You said that there were two reasons you wanted to speak to me. What was the other?” Thorin drew his hand away, but he didn’t step back. He scrutinized Frodo in a way that made the hobbit feel, if possible, even smaller.

“I wanted to thank you, Frodo Baggins.”

Frodo’s eyes flew to Thorin’s face, startled. 

“Thank me for what?”

“For taking care of him when I failed to do so. In my pride and ignorance, I left him alone for too long, allowed doubt and fear to gnaw away at his heart. I dreaded the day when he would grow too tired, too old, or too heartsick to come to me anymore, yet I did nothing to stop it. But you, Frodo, have become the joy of his life in the Shire. He has blossomed anew with you by his side. I fear that without you he may have faded into a shadow of the hobbit he was, and for that I will be forever grateful. As Bilbo’s heir, all that I have is already yours. But if there is anything I can ever do for you, anything at all...it would be my privilege, though it cannot begin to repay the debt I owe you.”

Emotion swelled inside of Frodo, spreading in a shuddering, aching wave to every inch of his body, lifting away a weight he hadn't realized was burdening his heart. It was a little like how he had felt the first time he crossed the Brandywine after the death of his parents: proud, frightened, a little overwhelmed. He had always hoped that in some small way he provided comfort to Bilbo, who had done so much for him throughout his life, but who always seemed to carry an albatross around his heart. To be told that he had _saved_ him in some indefinable way, well...he would scarcely have believed it if it didn't come from the mouth of this particular dwarf, who perhaps knew Bilbo better than anyone else. He would need more time to sort out his thougts on the matter. This discussion, such as it was, had spun him in every possible direction.

Thorin was still patiently waiting for a response, however, so he gathered his scattered wits as much as he was able.

“I don’t know about this ‘debt’ nonsense,” he replied slowly. “I don’t believe you can be indebted to family.”

Even as the idea was still forming, Frodo knew what he needed to ask. His stomach squirmed with nerves, and he felt equal parts giddy and terrified at the import of the offer he was about to make.

“But I believe there _is_ something you can do.” He breathed deeply, and looked Thorin square in the face. Here in the bright daylight, standing mere feet away, Frodo noticed that the dwarf’s eyes were piercingly blue, like a frozen lake. Dís had the same eyes, the same proud face, the same regal bearing. With her image in his mind, he could clearly envision what Thorin must have looked like fifty years ago, standing tall and proud in the doorway of Bag End, promising an adventure. Had Bilbo ever stood a chance?

“Come live with us. In Bag End. It doesn’t have to be right away. It doesn’t even have to be all the time. But please. I want you to live with us,” he blurted.

When Thorin didn’t respond, the fluttering feeling in his stomach turned to a hard knot of fear. Perhaps he had misinterpreted Thorin’s offer?

But then…

“Tharkûn was right...as he always is, the charlatan. No matter how long you know a Baggins, whether it be a month or a lifetime, they always manage to surprise you.” Thorin smiled, a full and true smile. It transformed him utterly, removing years from his bearing. “Are you certain of this, Frodo? Will you be comfortable sharing Bilbo’s attention? I would never wish to intrude on your relationship, or overstep my boundaries.”

“We’ll muddle through. You are as much as part of Bilbo’s life as I am. We will make it work. For him.”

“You are impossibly wise, for one so young. And equally kind. Truly, Bilbo could not have chosen a better heir,” Thorin praised warmly.

“Does that mean you’ll come?” Frodo pressed, wanting to be certain.

“I will come," he confirmed. "I have already discussed the idea with my family. They agree wholeheartedly with my decision. It is time for me to leave this self-imposed exile...there is no need for it any longer. I have affairs to settle here, but rest assured, I will follow you before Astron, by the reckoning of your people.”

Frodo beamed. “Then I have one further request,” he added, happiness giving way to habitual mischief. “Let us keep this between us. I want Bilbo to be surprised when you arrive.”

“As you command, Master Baggins,” Thorin laughed. “Bilbo has spent a lifetime defying all my expectations. It will be a refreshing change of pace to return the favor.”

\----------------

Five days later, they all stood on the steps of the Keep in the early morning: Dís, Fíli, Thorin, Bilbo and Frodo. Unlike their arrival, the timing of which had been too imprecise to send an escort, they were to be accompanied to the edge of the Shire by Fíli on their return, to ensure their safety.

Frodo had been showered with so many gifts by Dís that they had even had to borrow a mule for the journey. Fíli had laughed uproariously when he discovered this, but his mother was unrepentant.

“You will write to me, will you not?” she asked him now, as she straightened imaginary wrinkles out of the new fur-lined cloak around his shoulders. Of all the dwarves (and elves) whose acquaintance he had made on this journey, Frodo knew he would miss Dís more than any of them. She was the kindest, most generous, most learned and amazing person he had ever met in his entire life, of any race; motherly but not overbearing, regal but without conceit. His admiration was so great that would walk back to Ered Luin on his own if need be, to see her again.

The Baggins weakness for the line of Durin seemed to be hereditary.

“Of course I will,” he assured her. “And I hope that you will permit me to visit your halls again next Yule.”

“It would be my greatest honor,” she replied, and he knew the words were absolutely sincere. “The gates of Ered Luin are always open to you.” They embraced once more before she transferred her attentions to Bilbo. Thorin took her place, grasping Frodo’s forearm and touching their foreheads together in the traditional manner of dwarves.

“Farewell, Frodo Baggins of the Shire,” he intoned quietly. “May your journey be swift, and may Mahal bless you in all your endeavours. I hope that Fate will allow us to meet again soon.”

“I hope so as well, Uncle Thorin,” Frodo replied simply, before shouldering his pack and joining Fíli.

Thorin and Bilbo had already spoken most of their goodbyes privately, so as they stood before the gates of Ered Luin, they contented themselves with a gentle embrace and some final whispered words. Moments later, two hobbits, a dwarf, and a mule were traveling through the shadowed pass, back into the world outside the mountains. 

Frodo turned to look behind him one last time, and even though Thorin couldn’t see it from this distance, he mouthed one word...a promise and a plea:

 _Soon_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not entirely pleased with this chapter, but I had a deadline! Please keep an eye on this space post-Christmas Day for the epilogue, though. I promised a happy ending in the tags and I will deliver.
> 
> I could not have done this without the encouragement of my amazing beta [mithrilbikini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liasangria/pseuds/mithrilbikini), and of course the always inspiring [rutobuka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rutobuka). You are both the wind beneath my wings.


	4. Epilogue

One unremarkable morning in Spring, just after sunrise, a cart clattered down the main road of Hobbiton. Sitting astride one of the ponies that pulled it along was a stocky figure, his hood pulled low over his face. He was too short to be a Man, and may have been mistaken for a hobbit were it not for square, silver-capped boots that peeked out from beneath his sky-blue cloak. 

While it was still quite early, there were several hobbits already out and about, sweeping their porches and fetching water for breakfast. Those who did see the mysterious rider marked his passage with well-deserved suspicion. Outsiders were rare in the Shire, and those who were neither Rangers nor wizards were even rarer. The presence of a cart suggested that this fellow was either selling his wares, or preparing for a long stay.

It did not come as a great surprise to any of them when he stopped at the main fork, then turned sharply onto the road leading up to The Hill. 

While tongues were already wagging, the residents of One, Bagshot Row — known better as Bag End — were as yet unaware of the hubbub. Young Frodo Baggins had left only two days before to visit his cousins Meriadoc Brandybuck and young Peregrin Took, leaving his Uncle Bilbo Baggins to enjoy a week of peace and quiet.

Bilbo Baggins was, in fact, enjoying neither peace _nor_ quiet.

He had slept poorly, and been awakened by the sound of twittering sparrows being chased away by a skulking raven that had taken up residence in his oak tree a fortnight prior. Each day it cawed at the rising sun like some kind of grim cockerel, and pelted the kitchen windows with acorns until one of the two hobbits emerged to placate it with breakfast. It could not be removed by any means Bilbo had yet discovered, including bribery and a sturdy broom. He was certain the horrid creature belonged to one of his in-laws, as it had delivered a letter to Frodo on its arrival that he been very pleased (and secretive) about. But if it decided to stay for very much longer, Bilbo was sorely tempted to bake it into a pie, family relations be damned.

Thus he found himself awake much earlier than he would have preferred. Alone. And most distressingly of all, he had somehow misplaced his bag of pipeweed.

So when a heavy knock sounded at the door, he went to answer it with much grumbling, pulling his waistcoat down across his belly with a huff and tapping the (empty) pipe agitatedly against his leg. 

“Do you have any idea what time…”

All complaints about the earliness of the hour died on the tip of his tongue when he realized who was standing on his doorstep. His pipe clattered to the ground, forgotten, as he gripped the round frame for support.

“ _Thorin?!_ ”

“Well met, husband mine,” the dwarf replied, bowing low. He straightened, allowing his hood to fall back, and enjoyed one second of the astonished expression on Bilbo’s face before he was bracing himself against the forward momentum of a very determined hobbit. Strong fingers clutched at his back through layers of cloth, and he could only stand in place and hold Bilbo with equal strength, the rest of the world fading until he was aware of nothing but the reassuring weight in his arms and the soft breathing against his neck.

Bilbo, for his part, was so astonished that he was momentarily struck dumb, a rare feat in and of itself. Not even in his most fevered dreams could he have imagined seeing Thorin standing at his door on this completely ordinary morn, when the only thing he had been looking forward to was crawling back into bed as soon as propriety allowed. His thoughts were a swirling maelstrom; he did not know whether to laugh, or cry, or yell, or faint. He felt like he may do all at once, so instead he held Thorin even more tightly, hoping against hope that he had not gone entirely mad, as his neighbors already presumed. 

(Had it only been four months since their last parting? It seemed that no amount of time, no matter how brief, was ever short enough to make the wretchedness of their separation any easier to bear. Even this embrace felt charged: soothing and agitating in equal measure, happiness edged with the sharpness of desperation.)

Finally, reluctantly, they released one another. (If Bilbo wiped his eyes with his sleeve before meeting Thorin’s own, Thorin was polite enough not to mention it.) Bilbo reached up and held his beloved’s face gently between his hands, examining every inch of it as though he hadn’t seen it in an Age.

“Well, look at you!” he exclaimed fondly. “I think you may be even greyer than at Yule! Or perhaps it’s finally seeing you in true daylight that’s allowing me to notice what was already there.”

“As you say,” Thorin murmured, drinking in the sight of Bilbo just as greedily. He agreed, though, that seeing Bilbo here in the Shire was different than their last meeting; the clear sunlight magnified his husband’s papery skin, his wrinkles and age spots, in a way that Ered Luin’s torch-lit halls simply couldn’t. He was both awed by how handsome Bilbo still was (as ever!), yet dismayed that even his excellent Dwarven eyesight had been no match for his own denial. Time had been making fools of them both.

“Goodness gracious, what are you _wearing_?” Bilbo suddenly exclaimed, distracting Thorin from the self-recriminating turn that his thoughts had taken. He looked down at himself, confused.

“A...cloak?” he guessed, not understanding the aghast expression on Bilbo’s face.

“I suppose it is,” Bilbo replied, without much conviction. “It’s a bit more...ah.... _vibrant_ than your usual color palette,” he said, with what was clearly the greatest amount of tact he could muster.

“It might have been Dís’s, at one time,” Thorin allowed.

“Hm. Well, it’s probably best if you come inside. You can hang it on the other side of the door.” Somehow, Bilbo made the offer sound like an act of personal martyrdom. 

Thorin allowed himself to be tugged into the foyer, ignoring Bilbo’s disgusted sniff when he discovered the silver tassel dangling from his hood. Instead he looked around curiously, noting the changes to Bag End since the last time he had visited. That had been...ten years ago? Longer? He shied away from the thought, not wanting to put a number to his shame.

There were more books than he recalled; a stack on every flat surface, along with piles of parchment and various knick-knacks, both new and old. Here and there some order had been imposed, perhaps by Frodo: the books, while overwhelming in number, were at least grouped so that their edges aligned, and the trinkets were arranged artfully enough to be considered deliberate. Overall, though, it was much the same.

Bilbo didn’t notice Thorin’s silent observation. He was too busy puttering about, trying to get his bearings. 

“I haven't had a chance to make breakfast yet,” he fretted. “Frodo is away, so it’s only me, and I haven’t been to the market. But if you wait a moment, I can find a bit of bacon, and perhaps some cheese? I only have six eggs left, that’s hardly enough for even a single omelette…” Already he was writing a list in his head, remembering Thorin’s favorites, wondering if he might need to enlist the help of one of the Burrows to help him carry it all back up the hill...

Thorin carefully captured Bilbo’s hands in his own, stilling their nervous fluttering. 

“Peace, Bilbo. I ate on the road. I assure you that I am not likely to starve this very moment.”

“Hardtack and dried pork!” Bilbo moaned, “That’s hardly food at all! And besides, you’re not even carrying a rucksack. You couldn't _possibly_ have fit two week’s worth of provisions under that ridiculous cloak. Do you have a pony outside? How long are you planning on staying, anyhow? You are of course welcome for as long as you like, I just need to know how much I need to buy…” 

Thorin could feel this conversation veering wildly off course. He had caught Bilbo off guard by appearing unexpectedly, and the hobbit was now almost too flustered to speak to him properly. Had he the time, Thorin would have liked to calm Bilbo’s frazzled nerves, reassure him, indulge in more embraces and perhaps even a kiss or two. However, he _did_ have ponies waiting outside, guarding all of his worldly possessions. While he trusted the inhabitants of the Shire not to steal anything off of an unattended cart, he was less sure that someone wouldn’t come knocking on the door soon, and he wanted to make certain that his presence here was fully explained before they were interrupted by nosy neighbors.

Not only that, but his own nerves were snapping with tension, knowing that for the first time in many decades, he was making a clear declaration of his intentions. While he was almost entirely certain of the outcome, there was still a tiny sliver of doubt that he carried with him always, in all things, and in this instance it could only be dispelled once Bilbo understood and agreed to what he was offering. 

Still holding Bilbo’s hands in his own, he pulled the protesting hobbit along, out of the entrance hall and into the parlor, where a wide round window overlooked the the entirety of the town. The cart and ponies were clearly visible outside the gate of Bag End, just below them.

“Oh, is that your cart? It’s so full! Did Dís send…” Bilbo slowly trailed off. “Thorin, I don’t understand,” he whispered. His voice was so quiet, so lost, that Thorin felt like his heart might crack in two.

Carefully, he led Bilbo to a chair and guided him into it when it seemed his legs weren’t cooperating. Bilbo sat ramrod straight, continuing to stare blankly at the window as if he could no longer see what was beyond it. Thorin knelt at his feet, ignoring protesting knees, and took Bilbo’s limp hands in his own once more, pressing fervent kisses to lax fingers.

He wished he could find some tiny fraction of the eloquence he had mustered only months earlier with Frodo. But it was clearly much easier to report the facts as they had happened, when everything was already in the past and thus unable to be altered. To explain his reasoning, make his apologies, and commit himself to a new future directly _to_ Bilbo...it was both exhilarating and terrifying, sensations he had not experienced in many years and was not entirely certain he appreciated anymore.

But he would try. For Bilbo, he could always try.

“I am sorry for presuming a welcome when no invitation was given,” he began, haltingly. “I spoke with Frodo when the two of you visited Ered Luin, and Dís sent him a raven when I left the mountain so that he knew when to anticipate my arrival. He asked that I keep my plans a secret, and I agreed. I had hoped to surprise you, though I now doubt the wisdom of that choice.”

Bilbo moved his gaze slowly, feeling like he was under water, until he was looking down at Thorin’s bent head. The morning sunshine illuminated strands of bright white, mithril in a river of silver, and he was transfixed as much by their radiance as Thorin’s words.

“There are gifts from Dís in that cart, for you as well as Frodo, but the greater share of it is my own belongings. I had always imagined that I would come to you like this with only the shirt on my back, but I found that as I was choosing which possessions to bring, there were some items I could not bear to part with. Many were collected from our adventures together, but there are also family heirlooms, and things that I have grown fond of in my time in the Blue Mountains. I hope that it is not too much of an imposition, but there is little in my life that I treasure now, and I find great comfort in keeping the few things I most cherish near me.”

Bilbo gently disentangled one hand from Thorin’s grip; his dwarf kept the other firmly in his large grasp. He was now free to run his fingers through his husband’s heavy mane, which he did for a brief moment, luxuriating in the silky texture between his fingers. Eventually, though, he used his hold to carefully coax Thorin’s head up, until their eyes met. Thorin’s shone with barely-restrained emotion, and Bilbo imagined that his were the same.

“Speak plainly, Thorin. What is it that you are asking?” Hope flickered in his breast, a match set to kindling. Shock may have briefly caused him lose his wits, but he was a clever hobbit, and now that he had recovered he had an inkling where this speech was heading.

Thorin took a breath so deep that they both moved with it.

“Bilbo Baggins,” he said, “My dear husband,” he added, more softly. “I come to you with a humble heart, and pray that I have not tarried too long in making my decision. Though I have already received permission from your heir, that means little if you cannot accept my supplication. I ask if your generous offer still stands….if you are able to make a place for me here in Bag End. I did not realize when I rejected it all those years ago, in my foolish pride, that no place I ever settle can be my home without you in it.”

“Oh, Thorin,” Bilbo breathed. He bent himself over the stooped form, wrapping his arm around the dwarf’s neck and pressing his brow to the crown of that dear, dear head.

“Twenty years past, fifty years from now...when the the world is remade! You will always be welcome in my life and my home,” he replied, and he allowed the tears to fall unchecked down his face, because he was so overwhelmed with joy that he could do nothing else. He laughed, and felt Thorin shake beneath him, either with sobs or mirth, he could not tell. Perhaps it was both. It was the resolution of a half-century of uncertainty, but right now it felt like such a confusing mess of jubilation and relief and unspoken regret that all they could do was hold each other, and hold and hold, and press kisses wherever they might fall. 

Outside the window, a cantankerous old raven shook out its feathers before taking flight, soaring on the warm spring breeze, over fields and rivers, returning to its mistress in the Western mountains. Bilbo would not notice this for many hours, though it only added to his elation when he did.

Later, there would be a trip to the market, where many curious and disbelieving stares would follow Mad Baggins as he shopped hand-in-hand with a scowling dwarf. Some time even later than that — after no less than twenty hastily-scribbled and completely ignored invitations for tea had been cleared from the stoop — there would be letters written to relations near and far. When the sun set and even the most gossip-hungry hobbits were abed, there would be the sorts of things one might expect from a happy homecoming and an otherwise empty house.

In the meantime there was breakfast to be made, and scoldings to administer, a cloak to lose and a cart to unpack. There would be time aplenty for more tears and explanations.

But right now, in this moment, there were soft kisses and warm embraces, and the gratification of a home finally complete but for a meddling nephew, and two lonely wanderers that had survived a lifetime of tribulations — both together and apart — only to end up exactly where they had begun:

_In a hole in the ground, behind a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yellow brass knob in the exact middle..._

\----------------

So long had I travelled the lonely road,  
Though, now and again, a wayfaring friend  
Walked shoulder to shoulder, and lightened the load,  
I often would think to myself as I strode,  
No comrade will journey with you to the end.

And it seemed to me, as the days went past,  
And I gossiped with cronies, or brooded alone,  
By wayside fires, that my fortune was cast  
To sojourn by other men's hearths to the last,  
And never to come to my own hearthstone. 

The lonely road no longer I roam.  
We met, and were one in the heart's desire.  
Together we came, through the wintry gloam,  
To the little old house by the cross-ways, home;  
And crossed the threshold, and kindled the fire. 

\- Wilfrid Wilson Gibson -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, the promised epilogue. Thank you to all the people who left such kind comments on this fic. It was a pinch-hit that got wildly out of control, but I'm glad I went with my gut instinct, now that it's done.
> 
> And endless praise and thanks, as ever, to the magnificent [mithrilbikini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liasangria/pseuds/mithrilbikini) for her beta help. This fic would be much less readable without her invaluable assistance <3


End file.
